One Too Many
by ruth baulding
Summary: Who says you can't mix business and pleasure? The boys track down a person of interest during an extensive pub crawl. Lector caveat: dark humor and exotic highballs.
1. Chapter 1

**One Too Many**

* * *

**_10:07 standard local time_**

The distance between Coruscant, famously hailed as "the Jewel of the Core", and its dowdy sister-world Vandor 3 – popularly referred to as "the Armpit of the Core" – was a mere three hour jaunt on sublights in a no-frills commuter vessel.

Of course, if you happened to possess a souped-up Delta class starfighter, and the military security codes to bypass the restrictive free-fly impositions set by Intra-system Space Traffic Control, and you happened to tweak your fuel routers for maximum performance, you could do the same journey in just under thirty minutes.

Or less, if you happened to be Anakin Skywalker in a foul mood.

"Is that the best you can do, old man?" the aforesaid reckless speed demon demanded, idly flipping his ship upside down per the magnetic compass and skimming along Vandor's ionosphere at approximately four times the legal re-entry velocity.

Following behind at what he judged a conservative distance outside his friend's possible explosive shock radius – it never hurt to be cautious – Obi-Wan Kenobi unclenched white knuckled hands from about his own fighter's yoke and released a long sigh of relief. "Take over, Arfour. And ignore Master Skywalker's puerile taunts."

The astromech unit snugged away in its wing socket burbled a happy affirmative to this suggestion.

"I can hear everything you're saying," Anakin reminded his former mentor.

"Yes, but as there is little chance you'll actually _listen_, I don't feel obliged to play to the audience."

"Do you hear that, Artoo? I think he's mocking us."

Anakin's astromech responded with a long and expressive chain of whistling trills and blorps. The shipboard computers immediately provided a rough vernacular translation.

The Jedi master raised one brow. "So uncivilized."

"Relax, Obi-Wan. It's not like we ran into any safety patrols on the way."

The older man rolled his eyes in the privacy of his cockpit. "At that speed, Anakin, it was a mercy of the Force we didn't run into the _planet."_

""You must have more faith, my master. I got us here in one piece, didn't I?"

"That is yet to be seen. I'll weigh in once we've our feet on solid ground again."

Anakin flipped his ship right-way up again, and dove sickeningly for the distant surface, veiled beneath a swell of thick cumulus cloud cover. "Last one down buys the drinks."

* * *

_**10:17 local standard time**_

Not that Vandor Intergalactic Spaceport offered much in the way of cantinas.

"This place was nice before the war," Anakin grumbled, kicking a stray chunk of rubble out of his path with one boot. The rock skittered and bounced over the cracked tarmac, coming to rest beneath the battered hulk of a rusting freighter.

Obi-Wan's brows crept upward again. "Your idea of _nice_ and mine are very different, my friend." A fat duracrete slug emerged from an open drainage chute and oozed forward to snatch the bit of rubble from its hiding place.

"Ugh." Anakin's revulsion shuddered in the Force. "Kriffing _jerrzil."_

The swollen petrivore slunk back into its lair, leaving the docking pad empty again. Not even a droid clerk appeared to issue them a landing permit. Budget cuts had apparently wrought their magic here as well. Distantly a test explosive shook the earth and sent a plume of dark smoke into the sky. A squadron on heavy fighters passed overhead in tight formation.

"Who volunteered us for this bum assignment?"

The older man led the way across the wide grey expanse toward the outbuildings. "There was a time, Anakin, when you would jump at any opportunity to leave Coruscant. Perhaps I craved a change of scenery."

Anakin snorted. "Not my fault if being locked up in that stuffy Council tower doesn't suit you. If you broke the Code now and then, maybe they would release you from your position."

Obi-Wan tugged his cloak close about his shoulders as a frigid wind swept up from Vandor's coastline. "Tempting."

"Really?" His companion lengthened his stride. "Then let's get that drink we talked about. You lost the race, so you're buying."

To his surprise, the Jedi master agreed with a terse nod. "Fine."

Obi-Wan really hadn't been the same since Mandalore, but they didn't talk about that - at all, ever - by unspoken mutual consent. Anakin clapped his former master in the shoulder and steered them both toward the spaceport's only bar, _Jerzzil Shores._

In time of universal war, even a Jedi could stand to wet his whistle now and then.


	2. Chapter 2

**One Too Many**

* * *

**_10:27 standard local time_**

"So, what'll it be for you gents?" the paunchy Rodian barkeep inquired, leaning over the countertop on both elbows.

Obi-Wan eyed the rows of intoxicants lined up upon their shelves with a cagey and calculating air.

"You're not ordering a virgin anything, master." Anakin forestalled the obvious evasive tactic. "I'll have a Alderaana Slammer. And he's having the same as me." He turned to his friend. "Unless you're getting too old for this kind of thing."

Obi-Wan's brows rose yet again. "Make mine a double," he blithely addressed the 'tender, sending a credit chit sliding along the greasy bartop.

The Rodian nodded his thanks, stumpy aural tubes bobbing as he mixed up their poison of choice.

Anakin looked at the neonium posters, mainly portraying garishly made-up dancing girls or burly starfighter pilots lounging at their ease with various brand-name cocktails in hand. Sleasy, like Mos Espa. He felt at home, in a strange way. And then he remembered the last time he'd been on Vandor, to check on the 501st's training barracks. That had been with Ahsoka.

But that was something else they never talked about – at all, ever – by mutual unspoken consent. He accepted his drink when it was set before him and threw it down in several long gulps, choking a little on the burning aftertaste.

Obi-Wan considered his own drink contemplatively, sending the liquid sloshing in a carefully controlled ellipse as he turned the tumbler in his hand. And then down it went, in one go.

Anakin snorted. "Where'd you learn _that?"_

"Qui-Gon," came the laconic response.

Another topic they never discussed. It clearly wasn't gonna be one of those special bonding occasions, so they might as well get down to work. In a minute.

"Another round?" the Rodian asked, opalescent eyes bulging a bit as he spotted the saber hilts peeking from beneath their cloak hems.

"One more for the road," Anakin decided. "We're on the lookout for a terrorism suspect."

This revelation earned him a reproving glare.

"What?"

"Admiral Tarkin requested that this operation be considered a matter of internal military security. _Discretion,_ Anakin. You might consider looking the term up sometime. Certainly your vocabulary could stand improvement."

The Slammer left a kindling warmth beneath his solar plexus. "To hell with that," he smirked. "I got a big enough vocabulary to tell you exactly what kind of a chob-sucking barve _Tarkin_ is."

Obi-Wan didn't answer, so that counted as tacit agreement.

They downed their second round of drinks in brotherly silence.

"Let's go," Anakin grunted. He preferred to keep on the move. And they had work to do.

* * *

**_10:53 standard local time_**

For some reason, Vandor looked like a nicer place when they reemerged from the_ Jerzzil Shores _cantina.

"So now what, master? You're the discretion expert."

Obi-Wan surveyed the crowded docking port, arms crossed and eyes squinting half-shut in the glaring late morning sunshine. "The last intelligence report says he hijacked a small freighter near Devaron. He'll have modified the transponder and possibly the hull identification codes, perhaps have made other alterations. We should start by having a look at the ships docked here within the last week."

"Right." The younger man swept his own gaze over the motley collection of junkers and wrecks. "Leave that to me. I can spot a fake anywhere."

"Good. I'll speak to the port authority."

Obi-Wan sauntered away across the fractured tarmac with just a tad more swagger than usual, cloak rippling at his heels.

Anakin shrugged and meandered his way back to their Deltas, sitting wingtip to wingtip at the edge of the huge landing pad. A permit had been issued in their absence, the fighters' Jedi insignia sufficient to authorize unlimited use of the overfull facility. Artoo whistled a greeting as he clambered back into the open cockpit and sprawled casually in the pilot's seat.

"Okay, buddy. Give me a broadband wave signal between .6 and 3.6, ascending frequency. Let's see how many of these scrap-piles' security systems we can trigger."

The astromech issued a guttural cautionary razzle.

"I know – that's the whole point. Whichever one's alarm _doesn't_ go off is the one we're looking for. It would have been fried when our friend hijacked the ship."

Another dubious string of bleeps and tootles.

"Just shut up and do it," the young Jedi irritably replied. He was sick and tired of mutiny in the ranks.

Miffed, his personal mechanical assistant promptly obeyed – sending a high frequency signal through the fighter's internal amplifiers. Instantly, several dozen screeching and shrilling shipboard alarms sounded off, wailing klaxons shaking Vandor's crisp ocean air with a cacophonous chorus of objection.

All except one battered clunker on the left-hand side, that is.

Anakin vaulted lightly to the deck and made a beeline for his target, ears ringing and blood buzzing with the pleasant heat of two Alderaana Slammers. After all, discretion might get you respect, but this was how you got things _done_.


	3. Chapter 3

**One Too Many**

* * *

_**11:03 standard local time**_

"For stars' sake," Obi-Wan muttered, massaging his temple as the pulsing cacophony carried on and on. "_Anakin_."

The boy was as discreet as a rabid gundark. The bleeping of his comlink was barely audible over the pandemonium echoing across the entire spaceport. He ducked inside the port authority office, waving the transparent panel shut behind him.

"Kenobi."

Anakin's voice came out garbled amid the strident blaring of three dozen security alarms. "…..Chimera…. Ordennian, class beta… pretty beat to the hells, I don't think…."

With a heavy sigh, the Jedi master thumbed the device to standby and shoved it back in a belt pouch, mentally appending _failed to teach Padawan benefits of subtle approach_ to his ever-growing litany of personal regrets.

"Can I help you, General?" the droid-on-duty intoned.

Just his luck. The office of port authority had been delegated to an automaton, who – it was to be noted – did not require the inconveniences of a salary and benefits.

"Ah yes – I need to know if anyone matching the description of this individual has docked a ship here in the last standard week." He displayed a holo-image over his compact projector, watching the thing's optic receptors glint as it analyzed the shimmering portrait.

"I am sorry, Master Jedi, but the records are strictly confidential. Without a Senate Security Committee warrant, I cannot release that information to you."

Obi-Wan pushed his first impulsive thought about bureaucrats into a small and strictly repressed corner of his psyche and instead focused upon his second impulsive thought : the confounded thing about droids was their invulnerability to mind tricks.

He decided to change tactics. "In that case, I suppose I will be paying my bill and moving along. How much do I owe?"

The droid whirred and consulted its datapad. "Ship class and registration number?"

"Ordennian Chimera… I seem to have forgotten the number."

The droid obligingly pulled up several scrolling hologram fields in midair. They flew by too fast for the human eye to read, even with the Force's aid. "There is only one Chimera registered here at present. You have prepaid for a class C berth until tomorrow at noon. There is no outstanding balance."

"No, that can't be right," he protested. "My credit account doesn't show any transfers." The wonderful thing about droids was their inane sense of infallibility; an affronted droid would argue with anyone about anything, far past the point at which a living person would have stalked away in a huff or grown suspicious.

"No, that is correct," it sniffed. "My records indicate that you have paid for a berth already. Two hundred twelve credits including customs and usage fees."

"No, there must be a mistake. I haven't paid." It was uncompassionate to torment another sentient being, he chided himself. But a droid was only_ technically_ a sentient being.

If an only technically sentient being could look offended, this one would have. Its professional competence was under severe censure, and it rose to the defense, blunt digits flying over the datapad's input surface. "No, your transaction cleared Muniliist Mutual Branch 12765, confirmation sequence 2H7903B640DN."

"I'm sorry…. What was that again?"

He entered the data onto his own 'pad and feigned crestfallen realization. "Oh.. yes. I see now. You were right after all."

"Of course I was," it huffed. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No, no – I would not wish to put you to any further trouble. I'm sure you have confidential business to attend."

"Yes, indeed," the thing agreed stiffly, as oblivious to irony as it was to subtle persuasion.

* * *

_**11: 29 standard local time**_

"So, what'chya come up with?" Anakin rolled back smugly on his heels.

"I have a transaction code for a bank account," Obi-Wan informed him. "And a headache, thanks to you."

"That's the drinks, master - not my fault you're a lightweight. And I did better in the espionage department, too.."

"Oh?"

The younger man crossed his arms in imitation of his mentor's dubious posture. "Yep. Ground mechanic who came to disable all those security alarms says he saw the owner of the Chimera hobnobbing with a cocktail waitress in the PanGalactic pilots' and officers' lounge. They'll let us in, seeing as we're Grand Generals of the Republic and all."

"One of us is a General, Anakin. The other is a general nuisance."

They fell into step side by side, heading for the spaceliner company's private facilities on the other side of the port. "If it makes you feel any better, I sabotaged his ship just for good measure. Little flamm retardant on the external temperature gauges, and reversed the ion stabilizer input valve. His ignition sequence will stall out automatically, and it'll take him hours to find the problem. He's grounded."

"Why is it," Obi-Wan inquired, "That you excel at destroying and mangling ships, but can't maintain your own in working condition?"

Sore topic, that. Anakin bristled. "If you're dissing the _Twilight _again, I might ask who borrowed and then proceeded to get her blown to smithereens?"

The Force itself winced. Obi-Wan's expression froze to stone, and he lengthened his stride. Anakin kept pace, grimacing. It had probably been a mistake to mention anything touching on Mandalore.

The officers' lounge was a tastefully appointed and carefully sequestered corner of the PanGalactic corporate headquarters. Plush carpet muffled their footfalls as they entered; gleaming wall panels reflected the muted chandeliers.

"Find the waitress in question," Obi-Wan ordered, off-handed. "You seem to have a way with the ladies."

Never mind that all three female freighter pilots huddled at a tall table in the corner were staring unabashedly at the Jedi master. Anakin scowled. "Where are you going?"

Obi-Wan's brows lifted. "For a drink," he blithely informed his companion, heading jauntily for the bar.


	4. Chapter 4

**One Too Many**

* * *

11: 43 _standard local time_

"What's it to you?" the decoratively tattooed Twi"lek server demanded, perfect lips turning outward in a slight pout. "I can socialize with who I want."

Anakin was growing impatient. "He's wanted for murder."

Her shoulders rose. "Who isn't nowadays? You're a Jedi. You've killed plenty of people."

He was fairly sure the red haze floating before his vision was not alcohol induced. "This is _different,"_ he growled. "He killed a lot of innocent people. And _Jedi."_

Her mouth twisted sarcastically. "Oh well, that's different. I had relatives on Ryloth. They got killed during a Republic military action. So I guess we're all even."

One hand pressed into the wall on either side of her head, he leaned forward, growling. "_Where is he?"_

A hand settled on his shoulder, feather-light and yet weighted with a decade or more of authority. "Anakin."

The poor waitress slumped in relief as he stepped back a pace.

"I'm sorry if my associate intimidated you," Obi-Wan gallantly intervened, grabbing her elbow before her shaking knees gave way. "Here.. sit down." He steered her to the bar, where the lurid blue dregs of a Bomb-Bay Sapphire already sat forlornly in their crystal tumbler.

"I need a drink," the Twi'Lek waitress decided, running one hand over the back of her mouth, smudging her bright lip-paint. "_Kriff."_

The barkeep wordlessly poured her a toxic blend of several popular liquors, and she tossed it back pertly enough to make both Jedi's eyes widen.

"Better." Thus fortified, she braced herself against the molded counter and allowed her liquid gaze to travel slowly over her solicitous new acquaintance. "I haven't seen _you_ here before," she purred, lekku undulating softly.

"I haven't had the … pleasure of being here before," Obi-Wan stiffly offered, by way of explanation.

Anakin smothered a laugh behind his human hand. His former mentor might be a master of Soresu combat, military tactics, and diplomacy - but he knew _nothing_ about shmoozing with the ladies.

Their pretty companion didn't seem to notice Obi-Wan's deficiency in the charm department, however. She leaned in closer, lips parted and pupils dilating. The 'tender picked up on her cue and slid another pair of Suicide Nebulas under their noses. Anakin had to clear his throat and tap on the bartop to get one sent in his general direction, too.

This _was_ a team effort, after all.

"So, you looking for trouble, too?" their Twi"Lek friend slurred, leaning in yet closer.

"Perhaps."

She nearly fell off her stool before Obi-Wan gently righted her.

"What are you gonna do if you find him?" she demanded. "Kill him? Like for revenge?"

One blue finger trailed down the Jedi master's collar.

"I never kill anyone for revenge," he said, downing the second searing shot.

Anakin covered his own flare of anguished recollection in similar fashion. Stars, it burned.

"Never?" she teased, wobbling precariously.

"No," her interlocutor responded tightly, staring in to a mid-distance halfway between here and the Force.

She polished off her own serving and slammed the empty glass upon the bartop. "Oh. Well." She propped her elbows on the counter and balanced her chin atop her hands. "Wanna come up to my place for a drink when I'm off shift?"

"We'll meet you there," Anakin suggested, earning a faint frown of disapproval from his friend. "Where do you live?"

She gestured vaguely out the door. "Hostlery. 445, upper floor. S'nice place. Cheap. The manager'll let you in… I have a lot of visitors." Suddenly overburdened, she allowed her head to sink down upon the polished counter and closed her eyes, her glitter-crusted fake lashes settling gently over two flushed violet cheeks.

They tipped the barkeep handsomely, made a quick pit stop at the 'freshers, and took their leave.

* * *

12:07 _standard local time_

It was suddenly and uncommonly hot on Vandor that morning. They stripped off their cloaks and tossed them into their fighters' cockpits on their way back across the docking pad. Obi-Wan tugged at the close fold of brown cloth over his throat, and ran a hand through his hair, leaving it in casual disarray.

Anakin shot a killing look at his astromech when the little _choobazzi_ had the nerve to ask whether they had located the target yet. "We're _working_ on it. Lay off," he grunted.

"Ignore the peanut gallery, Anakin," Obi-Wan suggested, treating Artoo to a full serving of bland disdain.

Anakin stuck his tongue out at their pint-pot agitator and stalked off in his friend's wake.

"Perhaps if you checked him for loose wires –"

"Shut up, Obi-Wan."

"And next time you wish to finagle information out of a contact, you might consider employing subtle persuasion rather than strong-arm tactics."

"Excuse me?" Anakin jogged ahead and pivoted, walking backwards only a tad unsteadily. "Subtle persuasion? She was practically slobbering on you, master."

"Was she? I didn't notice."

"You're too blitzed to notice." The younger man's grin was a trifle lopsided.

"I have never been _blitzed,"_ Obi-Wan asserted, dismissively. "Well. Except once. But that doesn't count."

Anakin stumbled a little on an uneven curb and opted to walk _forwards_ again. "You always say that. It happened; it counts."

"Qui-Gon was far worse. So it does not count," his friend insisted, with the blithe self-confidence of a seasoned negotiator.

"Whatever."

.


	5. Chapter 5

**One Too Many**

* * *

**12:32 _standard local time_**

The garbage disposal containers outside the building in question were overflowing.

"Cheap is right," Anakin observed. "And no lift?" He peered dubiously at the rickety stairs ascending the worn façade. "Those don't look safe."

Obi-Wan snorted, bounding up the first flight. "Since when do such considerations weigh upon _you?"_

The younger man made a face at his back and trotted up the creaking structure, mechno-hand firmly planted on the handrail. The stairs were _wobbly,_ was all. He was just pointing out the structural instability.

They were accosted in the shabby fourth floor corridor by a portly Dagorian. "Hey! What in the hells you think you're doing here? This is a private residence. Tenants only."

"Pardon the intrusion," Anakin replied, in his best diplomatic tones. "We are guests of one of your tenants. Starlla – she works down at the PanGalactic officers' club?"

"Starlla, huh." The manager peered at them in disgust. "She's a nice girl. She don't need trouble with your types. Get lost."

"You would be willing to show us into her flat," the young Jedi insisted, making a graceful gesture with his right hand.

"No the vape I wouldn't!" the sour faced Dagorian spat. "Are you deaf?"

"You would be _happy_ to help us," Anakin tried again, putting a bit more concentration into the mind trick.

"I'm happy to call security and have them kick yous out on your trespassing butts!" the manager snarled back at him.

"Anakin." Obi-Wan stepped up to the plate. "Didn't she specifically say not to let the manager into her place? We shouldn't-"

"Wait ho, a minute," their vexed interlocutor interrupted. "She said what?"

"Oh… nothing, my good sir, merely – "

"Nothing my kriffing good sir my _fat arse!"_ the irate building superintendent snorted. "We'll see about that." He stumped away down the hall, and swiped open door 445 with his universal override. "Don't let me in, huh?" His voice dwindled into a disgruntled murmur as he disappeared inside.

"You're brilliant, master."

"So I'm told. Shall we?"

The place was rancid with the lingering energetic signature of its recent visitor… selfish, calculating malice hung in the air like a stale incense.

"He was here all right." they made a quick circuit of the cramped apartment, feeling with instinct and the Force where a more tangible trace might have been left. The manager ransacked the occupant's personal belongings in the next room, cursing under his breath. Anakin picked up a bottle of cheap perfume and set it down again. "I don't get it," he mused. "Why do women go in for sleemos like this guy?"

Obi-Wan shrugged, then stooped to retrieve a small object from beneath the dilapidated settee. "A code key," he murmured, turning the plastoid chip over in his hand. "I don't recognize this insignia."

"And moreover, " Anakin continued, "Why would she be stupid enough to take up with some guy she _knows_ is gonna up and leave her when the next ship comes into port? What's the appeal of a hypocritical barve like that?"

Obi-Wan looked away.

"What are you two _jerzzils_ doing here? Get out!" their unwitting host shouted. "Get the hells out! Starlla don't need no Jedi trouble. Scram!"

As they descended the stairs again – definitely unstable – a belated thought occurred to Anakin. "Hey. Hey – I didn't mean … you know, when I was asking about women being stupid and all, I wasn't referring to – "

Obi-Wan thrust hands into opposite sleeves. "It's fine."

That was good, because Anakin didn't really want to talk about it either. "Hey – there's a little hole in the wall across the way. Let's stop in for an appetizer or something. We could both use some actual food."

* * *

**1:17 _standard local time_**

The place turned out to serve Ithorian cuisine, which wasn't particularly compatible with a human palette. But there was no doubt they would benefit from some real food, so they masked the repulsive flavors and textures with a few fermented _liibar_ brews.

"I don't know about this stuff," Anakin decided, emptying his second bottle. "The smell makes me… makes me _urpy."_

"Urpy?" Obi-Wan smirked.

A blush spread over Anakin's already flushed face. "Yeah, well.. that's what mom used to call it."

'Mom'was something else they never talked about. But the finger foods had been reduced to crumbs and smears upon their platter, and getting up to leave seemed an insurmountable obstacle.

Obi-Wan changed topic as smoothly as he had polished off his third serving of _liibar _ without a single unbecoming _urp._ "This code key belongs to a guild or private club. I'm not familiar with it. Have you seen it, perhaps in the Rims?"

Even now, Anakin's early childhood exposure to the seedy undersisde of spacers' lore and the Galaxy's marginalized underclasses occasionally came in useful. But the symbol adorning the flat code chip was nothing he had encountered before. "Nope. We could holo it to Master Sinube back at the Temple – he might have a guess."

"Perhaps." Obi-Wan frowned over the curious markings another few moments and then pocketed it again. "We'll try the banking kiosk first."

"Great."

They sat, staring expectantly at each other and then the exit.

"Well? What are we waiting for? Artoo to come give us a tow?"

They rose to the occasion and their feet like true Jedi Knights, and made for the door.


	6. Chapter 6

**One Too Many**

* * *

**_1:42 standard local time_**

The banking kiosk was conveniently located within staggering distance of the restaurant.

"I'll handle this," Obi-Wan announced, approaching the teller's window at an impressively steady gait.

"Good morning," he addressed the bored clerk.

"Afternoon," she tartly corrected him.

"Ah … yes. Afternoon. I have reason to believe my credit account has been hacked."

"Identification?" the woman drawled.

"My personal wallet was stolen.. I haven't any to show you. But I have the transaction code for the first suspect purchase."

"Liar," Anakin whispered in his ear.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't release information without ID. Regulations."

"It's against their Code," Anakin explained, sotto voce.

Chagrined, Obi-Wan raised one hand. "You can bend the rules to assist me," he suggested.

"Won't work," Anakin predicted.

"I can make an exception in your case," the teller decided.

"Vape it," Anakin grumbled.

"Give me the sequence." The woman deftly tapped the string of symbols into her data monitor. "Oh yes – your account was used to pay the port authority for a class C berth yesterday morning."

"Please tell me there haven't been any further charges to the account."

"Hmmm…. Sorry to disappoint you, bud, but it looks like somebody's running up quite a bar tab at some place called the _Crash Site._ That's all the way over in Sleeborg on the other coast."

"Can you block the account?"

"Sorry – you'll have to petition the main branch to freeze your assets. Fill out form 55B and send it via the transmission kiosk to headquarters on Coruscant. Have a nice morning."

"Afternoon," Anakin corrected her with a supercilious smirk.

"Sleeborg," Obi-Wan murmured as they wandered back along the pedestrian promenade. "Why in the blazes would anyone go over there?"

"Dunno. 'Cause there's no military presence? It's one of the only settlements too shabby even for GAR barracks?"

"He left his ship here – he must have taken the Transcontinental Tube."

Anakin shuddered. "We are _not_ riding on the star-forsaken subway system. Underground stuff makes me claustrophobic."

Obi-Wan agreed with an amicable gesture. "The fighters will be faster anyway."

This made his companion pause in mid-stride. "Did you just opt for speed over stealth?"

The older man raised his shoulders in a faint shrug and carried on. Anakin made a mental note to lure his former mentor into the local cantina more often.

* * *

**_2:57 standard local time_**

As it turned out, they had occasion to frequent the Jerzzil Shores again anyway.

"Why in the hells would Artoo choose to do a systems diagnostic _right this very moment?_" Anakin demanded, addressing his second White Rugosan. "He knows we're in a hurry."

Obi-Wan set his third empty glass on the counter. "Your astromech is passive aggressive, Anakin. How many times have I told you to have him checked for –"

"Shut up."

"Astromechs are designed to imprint on their primary pilot," Obi-Wan reminded him.

"Oh, so that's why Arfour is such a prissy snob."

"Leave Arfour out of this; we're discussing _your_ droid. He's inexcusably rude. Apparently you've managed to leave quite an impression on his young and malleable circuits."

"Whatever, master." Anakin polished off his drink with a satisfied smack of the lips.

"Admit it, you're a bad influence."

It was a miracle of the Force that Anakin's glass didn't explode beneath the pressure of his mechno-fist's grasp. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

Obi-Wan released a long sigh. "Not what you think."

"Oh yeah? Was that why you decided to expel her? 'Cause I'm a bad influence?"

The older man bristled. "I decided no such thing."

This didn't count as talking about it, because they were on the verge of having the conversation with their fists. "'Cause you just sit back and do what the Council says. No matter what."

Obi-Wan's expression was locked down tight now. Dangerous. "Not always," he said, tonelessly.

"What if it was me?" Anakin demanded, heedless of consequences.

"It wasn't _you. _Stop indulging in irrational non sequiturs."

"What if the Council kriffing decided to throw _me_ under the airbus, huh?"

His friend's brows came together thunderously. "If you are _tempting_ me, Anakin, don't. I've had my Force-damned _fill _of it, thank you."

Oh ho…. A vulnerability. "So've I," he snarled back. They glowered at each other, arms crossed in mirrored resentment. "So whose holier than who, now?"

Obi-Wan's hand slammed into the bartop. "So _help_ me Anakin!" But he didn't throw the deserved punch.

"Sorry," the young Jedi muttered, miserably. "I just… I miss her. Okay? I kriffing _miss_ her. Do you have any kriffing idea what that's like?"

A beat. "Yes. I do."

Silence.

After all, they did not talk about this ever. At all. This or any of the other things either. By mutual unspoken consent.

They had another round of drinks instead, and then helped each other find their center of balance, and then went to check on the droids' progress.


	7. Chapter 7

**One Too Many**

* * *

**_3:23 standard local time_**

The distance between Vandor Intergalactic Spaceport – a venue in no way proportionate to its glorified name – and Sleeborg, the ungainly suburban sprawl surrounding a declining industrial center on the massive continent's opposite coast, could be covered in just two hours aboard the non-stop subterranean magrail service.

Of course, if you happened to possess a souped-up Delta starfighter, and you happened to ignore your astromech's strident warnings about overtaxing the compensators when flying in atmosphere, and you decided to avoid drag and pressure differential buffeting by skimming along the rocky and treacherous inland terrain at an altitude of less than fifteen meters, you could make the same journey in just under twenty minutes.

Or less, if you happened to be Obi-Wan Kenobi with about ten stiff drinks under your belt.

"Is that the best you can do, Anakin?" the aforesaid spped demon demanded over the ship-to-ship comm system, flipping his fighter perpendicular to the ground and squeezing between two looming pillars of eroded rock at a speed roughly four times the recommended non-vacuum performance maximum.

Following behind his uncharacteristically brash friend at what podracers termed the Breakneck Margin – it never hurt to save your own neck – Anakin Skywalker gritted his teeth and executed the same perilous maneuver, cursing steadily beneath his breath.

"I can hear everything you're saying, you know," Obi-Wan reminded him.

"You're going to blow your throttle," the younger man warned him.

"I don't think so, my very young friend," came the cocky reply.

"Your _ship's_ throttle, Obi-Wan." It was impossible to suppress an eyeroll.

They careened around another wind-eroded land formation, and dived into a canyon at hair-raising velocity, dust and grit rattling against their hulls as the screaming drives kicked up a huge pressure tunnel.

"You're sweating," the Jedi master accused his erstwhile protégé. "I haven't felt you this tense since… oh, since we got shot down during the second Geonosis campaign."

Artoo shrieked in terror as Anakin barely scraped them through the narrow cliff-opening at the valley's end, nearly taking off the mechanical navigator's head in the process.

"_You_ got shot down by those hell-spawned bugs, master. And _I _ rescued you. Remember?" For a peerless tactician, Obi-Wan had a _lousy_ head for detail. Or maybe that was the booze. It was hard to tell.

"Oh… yes." A faint chuckle, echoing over the comm system and in the disjointed Force. Speaking of which -

"I feel a disturbance here." The Force felt… twisty and jiggery.

"Nonsense. You've simply had one too many."

Obi-Wan managed to avoid colliding with a suddenly looming forest of wind-scultped stalagmites, twisting the spry Delta through a teeth-rattling spiral corkscrew while accelerating wildly.

Anakin soared over the top of the deadly labyrinth. He wasn't _that_ stupid. "Master!"

"Relax, Anakin. Use your feelings. Trust in the Force."

Anakin switched his comm system off. "He's kriffin' nuts, Artoo. Don't listen to him."

The astromech whistled his wholehearted agreement, easing up on the thrusters and completing the remainder of their journey at a less feckless and suicidal pace.

* * *

**1:37 _local standard time_**

"That can't be right," Anakin frowned, staring at the console chronometer.

"Time zone change," Obi-Wan informed him. "Something abstruse to do with longitude."

"Oh." The short drop from cockpit to ground was difficult to gauge, so Anakin settled for stepping onto the wing and then the deck.

Obi-Wan reached out a hand to steady him. "Easy."

They had lighted upon the flat rooftop of a derelict factory warehouse. "Are we allowed to dock here?"

Obi-Wan thought about it, hard, the line between his brows deepening. "Let's say we are. Better to ask forgiveness than permission."

Anakin snorted.

"Are you _quite_ all right?" the Jedi master demanded. "You seem a bit… imbalanced."

"'S not my fault. It's your so-called piloting."

This earned him a dismissive hand-wave. "I was evading Togorian warships before you were born, Anakin."

"I don't know. I think I like you better with your inhibitions intact."

"Why? Qui-Gon never approved of them, you know. He spent twelve years trying to train them out of me."

It would be impolitic to suggest that the object of their mutual hero worship might have been a loony, but at the moment it certainly looked that way. Anakin focused on putting one boot in front of the other.

They managed to find the access panel for the rooftop stairs.

"It says Emergency Exit," Anakin grumbled. "Where's the _entrance?"_

"We'll turn this into one." Obi-Wan's saber made short work of the inconvenient signage and the locking mechanism. "After you."

Down the black passage into a cavernous interior, and thence to street level.

Obi-Wan turned the Main Entrance into an Exit in similar manner to his previous escapade.

"Now where?"

They peered at the polluted byways of Sleeborg's dingy manufacturing and commerce sector. "Now we find the Crash Site. And whatever trouble is waiting there."

That sounded good to Anakin. Better than flying, actually. "Fine." With any luck, they'd be done with this whole stupid mission before happy hour.


	8. Chapter 8

**One Too Many**

* * *

_**2:19 standard local time**_

"Are you sure this is the right place, master?"

Obi-wan gestured to the front half of an early model Aethersprite thrust fancifully through the bar's outside façade, and the glaring holoboard above it. "I think that answers your question."

"Good point." It was a waste of good machinery, but Anakin supposed it made for architectural interest.

"You here for the conference?" a hulking bouncer inquired at the Crash Site's doors.

"That's… why we're here," Obi-Wan cleverly improvised, flashing the inscribed code-key they had found in the Twi'Lek waitress' apartment. The unfamiliar guild symbol seemed sufficient passport to allow them unobstructed entry.

"You of age, curly-locks?" The guard poked Anakin in the chest lightly.

"_Yes,"_ the young Jedi snarled, shouldering his way past. The brutish Klatooinian's chuckle echoed throatily behind him.

The place was packed with a wide assortment of rough-looking types, very few of them clad in anything approaching business casual.

"These don't look like business professionals," Anakin pointed out to his friend.

"No," Obi-Wan agreed. "Skilled trade, then. Let's blend in."

Blending in meant drinking, since that's what everybody else was doing - in abundance. The Jedi found a small empty table tucked away in a corner. Anakin perused the flashing cocktail menu while Obi-Wan scanned the crowd for signs of their quarry.

"What'dyou suppose a Hairy Navel is, master?"

Obi-Wan's brows lifted. "I would be more concerned about putting some hair on your chest, Anakin. But suit yourself."

"Whatever." The Hero With No Fear ordered four, just for good measure – two apiece.

"I can't sense him," the older man complained. "The Force is disturbed here."

"Nah. You've just had too much," his friend assured him, promptly choking on the Hairy Navel's acidic kick.

Obi-Wan knocked back his first Navel without a glitch, still warily watching the crowded bar's interior. "Yes. Well," he said. "That is truer than you know."

That was as close to a personal revelation as they were going to get. Anakin felt honored by the confidence. "Me too," he admitted.

Their eyes briefly met, a solidarity of the trenches, of the carved lines scarring the face of the galaxy, of their tormented personal narratives.

They partook of the next round in solemn unison, a libation poured over an unlikely altar of brotherhood. After that, it was difficult to discern ambient noise from the roaring of the Force in their ears, but it didn't matter.

Neither of them was going to remember much about this tomorrow, so it still didn't count as _talking._ "I swore to protect her," Anakin ground out, diving off the deep end. "And in the end, it was the _Order_ that sold her out. I couldn't stop it."

"I'm sorry."

"You should be! Why didn't _you_ do anything?"

Obi-Wan took it standing up. Well, sitting down. But still. "I tried," he replied. Pain flitted here, there, across his face and into the Force, disappearing like the morning's haze. "I was overruled."

"You?" Hard to believe: the Negotiator, overruled. Anakin shook his head. Impossible.

"I – recent – that is, the issue of attachment…"

Anakin's mechno-fist hit the table, rattling the empty glasses. An observant waitress brought them another round, whisking away the forlorn dregs of the last two.

"Kriff that, master! You don't – I mean…. " He looked at his friend again- _looked_ for real. "Holy chisszk, Obi-Wan. You mean recent… Mandalore?"

A nod. A muscle in the Jedi master's jaw leapt, and he downed the last drink in one go, tipping over some impalpable horizon into uncharted territory.

Anakin bit his lip. The world was spinning pleasantly, yet nauseatingly. "What happened? You never said. You came back, but you never said what happened."

They never talked about this. Ever. At all.

Inhale. Wait. The room was plunging downward, freefalling alongside them both. There were people you would die _for…._ And then there was the person you would die _with, _side by side. Even if you were both blitzed beyond all mortal reckoning. "What happened?" Anakin pushed.

Obi-Wan's brows furrowed together, upward, a tiny seismic uplifting of grief. "He killed her." Short breath. Pause. "In front of me." Swallow.

Anakin's glass did explode beneath his grip this time. The cocktail splattered over the table, dripped like gore upon the tiles beneath their feet. "What did you do?"

"Nothing." Trembling exhalation. Gritted teeth. "Nothing." Closed eyes. Force _seething_ with it. _Release, release, release._ "Nothing, Anakin." Harsh breath now. Inexplicable, impossible moisture trailing into beard. "I am a Jedi."

"I'm sorry." A pathetic, in sufficient reply. If Anakin ever ran into Maul again, he would cut the hell-forsaken monster in kriffing _half._ The other way. And if anybody ever _touched_ Padme's pure white body to harm her, the entire galaxy would pay, until the filthiest most remote dustball in the Rims echoed with his vengeance.

Somebody threw a rag at them, a hint to clean up the mess.

The whole world was the Force roaring in their ears, the alcohol roaring in their veins, a wild soaring dive through boundless interior space, two men in a seedy bar on Vandor 3, sitting amid a mess they could never hope to clean up, a dripping puddle of blood and treason and loss so deep and wide that only a miracle of the Force could ever set the balance aright.

And then they spotted him, lounging insouciantly at the bar, as though nothing had ever gone wrong in the first place.


	9. Chapter 9

**One Too Many**

* * *

**2:37 standard local time**

Obi-Wan stood up – which feat alone proved that he was, indeed, worthy of his rank and title_ - _ and jerked his head in the direction of their target. "I'll have a word with our friend."

"I've got your back." Usually it was the other way around, but Anakin had learned over the years to keep a respectable distance when it looked like limbs were gonna start flying.

There could be no question of identity; the man at the bar matched the captured holo-footage from the bombing site perfectly. And conveniently, the Trandoshan sitting on his immediate right chose that moment to slide to the floor in a stupor. Obi-Wan swaggered forward, stepped over the reptilian's lumpy body and swung himself onto the barstool in his place, swiveling round with a snarky half-grin that made Anakin's hand creep toward his saber hilt in anticipation.

"Hello there."

The suspect eyed him up and down, casually. "You here for the conference?" He drained a shot of Corellian brandy and sent the empty glass sliding down the polished bartop.

"No… just stopping by on business."

"Yeah? Have one on me, friend. What'll it be? Pick your poison."

The Jedi master cast a wry look at the rows of glittering bottles behind the counter, and at the expectant 'tender. "I place myself in your capable hands." The huge Garshaan bared both sets of teeth and stepped away to fix some loathsome brew for his delectation.

"So…," their new acquaintance cagily inquired. "You independent or union?"

Obi-Wan's brows rose. " I'm from off-planet – I wasn't aware there _was_ a union."

This provoked a snigger. "We gots the same workers' rights as anybody else, brother. Bounty hunting don't mean we gotta take chisszzk from the Man, you know?"

Anakin's sharp intake of breath coincided with Obi-Wan's alarmed glance in his direction. _Bounty hunters' union meeting –_just their luck. A quick head count and he decided the odds were even. Two Jedi versus forty-seven bloodthirsty professional killers? He nodded to his former master. Green light.

The marked lack of enthusiastic approval seemed to spark a suspicion. "Hey… what kind o business did you say you were here on?" Every ear in the place seemed to perk up at this question. Anakin tensed. This was where the fun began.

Obi-Wan shrugged, abandoning previous tactics and opting for the direct approach instead. "To arrest you, actually."

There was a heartbeat's awkward silence before blasters and 'sabers were blazing away.

* * *

**2:59 standard local time**

It was a glorious bar brawl, replete with smashed bottles, broken furniture, and bodies skidding across the polished countertop. The few patrons who were not part of the bounty hunting workers' union – rather the minority, it would appear – promptly took refuge beneath tables or cowered in dark corners, hands over heads, while the remaining participants in the melee unloaded their artillery of small arms upon the two Jedi.

Fortunately they were all inebriated and had worse aim even than a legion of battle droids with depleted power cells. The handful of shots that would have found their mark were easily deflected by a pair of thrumming sapphire saber blades.

Back to back, high as a pair of starfighters cruising in clear space, the Jedi were more than aware of their double advantage: either one of them was three times as intoxicated as anyone else in the smashed and smoke-filled room, and both of them had the Force. Or it had them. It was hard to tell, really, the luminous universal energy as shattered and dazzling as the shards of the mirror behind the bar, the one that had exploded when Obi-Wan's flashy backswing took it out in one fell swoop – just before Anakin had severed the chandelier from its moorings and plunged them into fire-fretted gloom.

Their opponents cursed and shouted, pummeling them with a steady barrage of blaster fire. And in the midst of the chaos, their quarry tried to escape through the back exit.

"No you don't, sleemo," Anakin growled, rolling beneath a strafing line of high-energy bolts and leaping to intercept the fleeing terrorist.

"Blast it, Anakin!" Obi-Wan didn't appreciate being left alone at the focus of so much unwanted attention, but years of war had hardened him to the point of jaded acceptance. The only way to communicate with such a felonious convocation of shameless drunks was via _aggressive negotiation._

Anakin's 'saber barred the exit in a blazing line, casting the harsh lines of the man's face in ghastly blue; six or seven arm stumps skittered on the floor as the more murderous of the company trespassed upon Obi-Wan's jealously guarded personal space; the distant klaxons of Vandor's security forces pierced through the din; the barkeep hysterically squealed that drinks were on the house and spritzed them all down with pressurized flamm retardant, a crowd control ploy that had no effect but to increase the general confusion and rage.

"You're not goin' anywhere," Anakin told his prisoner.

"Wrong, Jedi. I'm goin' to the hells.. and takin' you with me!"

The thermal detonator in the cornered villain's grubby fist was eloquent testimony to his sincerity. Leering, he depressed the trigger and tossed the gleaming spheroid explosive device in the air.


	10. Chapter 10

**One Too Many**

* * *

_**3:08 standard local time**_

There was only one thing to be done; unfortunately, both Obi-Wan and Anakin did it at the same time. A single, focused use of the Force would have properly redirected the explosive's trajectory, or even smothered the blast in a protective bubble – after all, Anakin _was_ the "Chosen One" – but the combination of two such invisible impulses caught the tiny sphere midways in a tug-o-war and popped it straight through the roof, blowing rafters and insulation sky-high and sending a choking avalanche of dust and plaster down upon the entire assembly.

The shock wave knocked everyone off their feet. All except Obi-Wan, who was still standing atop the bar, 'saber raised and ready, that cocky-as-all-Soresu-hell "come at me" grin plastered all over his face. Anakin only had a half a heartbeat to feel nettled by the familiar taunting look; in the next instant he was buried beneath most the building's second story, alongside his would be captive.

A few enraged Force pushes later – to mirror the thermal detonator's devastating effects – he had cleared the rubble and managed to blow out all the remaining windows. Plus he had his choking and sneezing comrade firmly by the scruff, lightsaber pulsing close to the barve's throat. Mission accomplished.

The other mercenaries decided to adjourn the meeting, evacuating the burning and collapsing building in a disorderly riot of hearty curses and synth-leather clad limbs. Stuff was on fire everywhere, and the ceiling directly above the bar – the sagging skylight buttressed by a wheel of duramesh girders – was threatening to collapse inward.

"Master!" Anakin hoarsely yelled. "Get out of-"

_Boom._ The whole thing came down on their heads, and purest instinct carried him and his prisoner beneath the tumbling rubble and into the safety of the back lot just in the nick of time. With a cataclysmic thunder, the Crash Site made good on its name and fell to the ground in a fiery and disintegrating heap.

The skylight, naturally, had the perfect courtesy to fall _around_ Obi-Wan, who brushed some ash off his already scorched and filthy tunic sleeve and then lightly vaulted to Anakin's side, adding anAtaru style triple backflip just for good measure, as though he had forgotten he was getting too old for that kind of thing.

He surveyed the smoldering wreckage of the bar. "Well," he sarcastically grumbled. "That was good."

* * *

_**3:47 standard local time**_

The Republic military naval commander sent to collect the arrested suspect was duly impressed by their Jedi powers. His brown eyes widened as he surveyed the ruins of the building, jets of flamm retardant still being poured onto the site by Vandor's civil fire brigade.

"You do that, Generals?"

"Master Kenobi did most of it," Anakin modestly replied.

Obi-Wan usually wasn't comfortable with effusive praise, but he accepted credit for the mess with impressive equanimity. Though his tactical sense did raise a worrisome question. "I'm afraid there may be legal repercussions," he said, stroking his beard. "We did interrupt a Union meeting, and Unions have a good deal of influence in the courts."

The clone plopped his helmet back over his head. "Yeah, well, the GAR's got more friends in the legislature. Don't sweat it, General, if you ask me. We'll call this a military action. Anti-terrorist operation – folks gotta realize the price of security."

Obi-Wan folded his arms. "Yes, well."

The four armed escorts led the perpetrator away in cuffs; the fire brigade captain hollered orders to his men; a steadily burgeoning crowd of lookie-loos gathered about the margins of the dramatic vignette.

"Well, all in a day's work," Anakin decided. "Time for us to go home."

Not that they could exactly stand up straight, much less walk.

"I think we better call for a taxi, master."

"Good idea," Obi-Wan concurred, running a hand through his ruffled hair. "We might have had one too many."

* * *

_**4:06 standard local time**_

By the time Artoo and Arfour brought the two Deltas down, Anakin was all but propping Obi-Wan up on his feet.

"Easy, master – just get in here…. That's right…" Somehow he managed to tumble his former mentor into the cockpit of his starfighter and strap him in.

The Jedi master mumbled some slurring string of syllables, eyes drooping closed as he sagged against the backrest.

"'You're welcome," Anakin grinned, slamming the canopy closed. "Arfour – maybe orbit a few times and then head home – slowly. We're not in a hurry."

And then he clambered into his own ship, maybe a tad less elegantly than usual, and squinted at the dizzying array of instruments and gauges imbedded in the console.

"Artoo.. did you screw around with the ship while I was busy?"

The astromech's sardonic answer did not bear translation.

"Huh." Strange. He rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes and stifled a splitting yawn. "I dunno. Just …uh, follow Arfour. Yeah. I'm gonna meditate."

The droid blurped some ironic affirmative and lifted him off the ground, trailing casually behind the red and white Delta rising into the purple dusk just beyond.

Already the day's events seemed to be fading into the blurred margins of dreamlike memory…. He hoped Obi-Wan could recall exactly what had transpired, or their Council report was going to be a masterpiece of brevity. On the other hand, since the assignment had ended in a big explosion, that probably wasn't a bad thing. The sky was luminous blue and lavendar and glowing orange, a soporific and dizzying kaleidoscope of pretty colors bleeding into one another, just as his thoughts were doing…

He kicked his feet up on the console and leaned back, closing his eyes. "Steady as she goes, Artoo."

His mechanical navigator whistled a soft goodnight, and they flew on, leaving Vandor and the mission and all the things they never talked about - at all, ever, by unspoken mutual consent - far far behind on a distant and hazy horizon.

The End


End file.
